


a tale for the time being

by spf500



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Extensive use of welters, Fogg would just like a vacation thank you very much, Gen, also: collegiate sports!, me projecting my own philosophical discussions onto fictional characters, team bonding over the futility of life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 13:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19854172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spf500/pseuds/spf500
Summary: All Fogg wants is to wait out the rest of timeline 26 in relative peace. Grab Bigby, head over to the beach, just relax for a bit while this already-failed timeline falls apart. Unfortunately, Jane Chatwin has other ideas.Or: if nothing we do matters, then what the fuck ever. lets form a welters team.----Timeline 26 for the 39 Graves Project





	a tale for the time being

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the summary, this is for the 39 Graves Project! It's, uh, kinda weird, so just know that.
> 
> Stipulations:  
> -Quentin and Julia must die (i...fudged this one a little. artistic license, yeah?)  
> -Julia attends Brakebills  
> -Quentin slips Dean Fogg truth serum (Challenge Mode: it cannot be put in his tea)  
> -You must incorporate a Tesla Flexion into your timeline (this was supposed to be done cooperatively with the author of a different fic, but what with everything this was too difficult to coordinate, so i just cut it.)  
> -Professor Bigby is still teaching at Brakebills
> 
> All my thanks to [thevolunteertomato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevolunteertomato/pseuds/thevolunteertomato) and [monstrous_femme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monstrous_Femme/pseuds/Monstrous_Femme) for their amazing beta-ing skills!
> 
> Finally, title is from the book of the same name by Ruth Ozeki. i hated that book but it had a really cool title, so. Ruth Ozeki, if you're reading this...apologies.

Jane Chatwin appears gradually in the distance, getting bigger and more in-focus as she stalks through the sand on high heels. Fogg can admire the commitment to the aesthetic, but her whole buttoned-up prim-and-proper English get up is just _not_ jiving with the Mauritian beach. Really, she must be sweltering in those black leggings and that weird pink poncho. She looks like a very odd bird, wobbling across the sand with her oversized bag to where he and Bigby are stretched out in lounge chairs. Her poncho clashes horribly with the clear blue ocean.

Next to him, Bigby lowers her sunglasses. “Told you it would take her less than twenty-four hours to find us. You owe me fifty bucks.”

Fogg sighs. “Typical. The one time she does something in a timely manner, and it costs me fifty dollars. Ah well.”

Jane is now close enough that Fogg can see that she isn’t looking particularly happy—maybe _she_ should take a nice relaxing beach vacation.

“Well,” says Bigby, sipping from her conspicuously full glass, “I’m struck with the sudden desperate need for another drink. Have fun explaining our little vacation to Ms. Chatwin!”

“Wait, Bigby, come back-” Fogg hisses after her, but she’s already gone.

Jane stops in front of his lounge chair.

“Whatever possessed you to run off like that, Henry? We are at a most crucial juncture.”

Fogg smiles up at her with an air of fatalistic good humor. “Taking a much-needed break, my dear. I figured it was high time I profited off this time-loop nonsense. If nothing we do matters, then we might as well go to the beach. Would you like a drink? Some fruit?”

The look Jane gives him is exasperated, to say the least. “The fate of the whole magical world rests on our ability to defeat the Beast, and you’re lying here, getting day-drunk on, on, pina coladas?”

“It’s a strawberry daquiri, actually. Really, you should try it. Take a time loop to yourself, find a nice beach, get a little me time, come back refreshed and ready to give the whole business another go.”

Jane swiftly nabs the drink out of Fogg’s hand and, without breaking eye contact, pours it out onto the sand. This, after everything—everything he’s been through, everything he’s _done for her_ , the fighting, the destruction, seeing Julia Wicker’s lifeless body iterated seventeen times over, the forced complicity in all of the above—this is the last straw.

“Come one Henry. Vacation’s over. I need you.” Jane starts trying to gently chide him out of his chair, like a British governess. She probably would have been one, if all this hadn’t happened.

“No.”

“No?” Jane is puffing up with anger. Fogg meets her with his own cool fury.

“No.” He repeats it, savoring the feel of it on his tongue. “The Beast has already almost broken through the wards five times, the entire East Coast hedge network has been wiped out, and I can feel this timeline starting to unravel around the edges. You know how it is—this many iterations into timeline resets, the loops get so finicky and all sorts of things set them off until they become unstable. I’ve been through this twenty five goddman times, I know the signs as well as you. This timeline is doomed! I refuse to spend its last days watching my students die _yet again_ only for this whole thing to be erased all over again.”

Jane deflates, looking uncharacteristically morose. “Sometimes I forget how much you care about them all, even when you pretend not to.” She shakes her head, then perks up the tiniest bit. Indefatigable, that one. “Look, I’m working on something, I think I have a new source of information that is vital to defeating the Beast. But I need more time. If I were to reset the loop now I would lose all the progress I have been making.

“I just need you to keep an eye on the children and prevent them from doing something stupid for two days—just two days, Henry! Oh, don’t look at me like that, I am merely asking you to do your job.”

Fogg growls back. “Oh yes, because running a magical graduate school in a timeline doomed to fail is so _very_ easy, while you go off to research, what, secret Fillorian martial arts? Wait, don’t answer that question, I don’t actually want to know.”

“It’s not like you even need to do anything! Lock them all in the clean room for all I care! Just make sure they don’t do anything rash and poorly-thought out. Is that _really_ so hard?”

There is a tense moment where they stare at each other, Jane glaring at him with that steely look in her eye that can only spell trouble. Fogg remembers the last time they had done this. That conversation had gone something like “You can’t make me help you on your idiotic failed science project to fix your family squabble, you megalomaniacal brit” and “I will reset this timeline until you agree to help me, or until you have been driven insane and your brain reduced to mush by the constant temporal fluctuations, so help me god.” It had not been either of their finest hours.

His mind wanders to that panicked email he had gotten this morning. The committee needed a last-minute venue, and had offered him the chance to enter a last-minute team in exchange…it’s not like he had anything better to do with the next forty-eight hours.

He gives Jane a smile—a small one, but a smile nonetheless.

“Fine, but you’re buying me another drink.”

* * *

Fogg stands in the Welters court, bright and early Saturday morning. The sun is shining in and hitting the gleaming wooden floor at just the perfect angle to blind the students in front of him.

As tempting as locking his students up in the clean room had been, Fogg suspects that that would not have ended wellI. Instead, he thought he’d have a little fun because he does, after all, fucking love Welters.

On the bleachers sit a group of seven students Fogg likes to think of as the usual suspects: Quentin Coldwater, Julia Wicker, Alice Quinn, Margo Hanson, Eliot Waugh, Penny Adiyodi, and Kady Orloff-Diaz.

This go-round he had done his utmost to distance himself from them to save himself some of the inevitable trauma. And yet, every time he looks at their carefree faces, all he can see is their ghosts, layered on top of each other like an overexposed photo. Quentin, dead, again and again. Kady, her normal façade of aloofness shattered, sobbing. Eliot, covered in blood.

Fogg is starting to resent each fresh-faced and hopeful new iteration of them.

Bigby stands on the Welters board, an impressive thing, all intricate carvings, mysterious-looking runes, and expensive woods. She claps her hands together cheerfully. “Right! Good morning everyone, and welcome to our new Welters Program! As you were informed last night in this handy pamphlet,” she shakes a red booklet, “today is going to be an intensive workshop to get you all up to speed.”

There is a discontented muttering from the bleachers; It’s far too early for this. Julia, bright and curious as ever, raises her hand.

“Yes, Ms. Wicker?”

“As much as I appreciate being chosen to be on this team, it’s definitely too late in the season to be forming a competitive Welters team, so isn’t this just all a waste of our time?”

Ah, Julia. Never one to quail at an authority figure.

“It is, Ms. Wicker. This decision was made, ah, rather last minute, which is why we are doing an intensive today, instead of having a regular training schedule.” She pauses, then drops the bombshell. “Also, tomorrow Brakebills is hosting a Div III tournament of the American Welters Circuit, and you will be competing in it.”

There is a stunned silence. Margo is the first to break it with a succinct “The fuck.”

“Somehow, I doubt we’ll be ready by then,” says Eliot dryly.

Bigby just shrugs and continues to explain the rules of Welters, unperturbed by her students’ doubts and general lack of enthusiasm. Oh to be young and to have your world revolve around collegiate sports once more…he loses himself to memory.

Fogg jolts back to the unfortunate present when Bigby says, “Dean Fogg and I will now demonstrate a quick one-on-one skirmish.” Bigby makes eyes at him and jerks her head when he doesn’t immediately react.

Fogg quickly squares off facing Bigby. He raises his hand, concentrating on the silver ball, reaching out with his magic to lift it to his hand, pausing to savor the moment. Against his better judgement, he can feel the excitement growing inside him.

The first throw of the game.

He raises his arm behind him, takes a step forward, swings his arm up, and releases. The ball flies in a perfect arc, landing dead center on a black square three rows in where various runes then light up with a silver light. Fogg walks over and closes his eyes, feeling out the circumstances, then turns to speak to the students.

“Each square acts as its own mini ecosystem, contained within this 3-dimensional space. Now, based on the energies coming off the runes, I can tell that this square’s circumstances are fairly close to the teaching standard, but with a gibbous moon waning at the 45 latitude, and right after a thunderstorm. With circumstance like these, I should pay careful attention to the articulation of the index fingers and avoid too much movement in the pinkies.” Fogg steps back off the square, moves his hands into a modified Popper 15, then into Koyasegi’s thaumaturgical mutation. Open completion, the square is transformed from a dark wood to a rippling sea of grass. There is a smattering of polite applause from the stands.

Bigby steps up, readying her own ball. She tosses it overhand, landing on a square in the fifth row, slightly to the right. She trots over to it, studies it, and then with a flick of her wrist turns it into a blinding swirl of colored lights. Bigby, being a magical creature, has no need for fancy hand movements, the lucky bastard.

From here the pace of the game quickens. He and Bigby cast faster and faster, sometimes undoing the other’s spell almost before they complete it. Fogg loses himself in the rush of it all, getting back into the Welters rhythm: throw, sense, cast, begin again.

Here’s the thing about circumstances: when you begin learning magic, you memorize how to cast for different circumstances in the same way you memorize conjugations and grammar rules for a foreign language. But just like a foreign language, once you hit fluency, you no longer need to carefully construct grammatically perfect sentences. You simply feel the circumstances, the very air of it, in your bones, and almost before you have processed what you felt, before you _know_ , your hands know exactly what to do to get the effect you want. What was once a conscious choice has become subconscious instinct. It’s a magic of its own.

Finally, Fogg makes it to the other side of the board just one square ahead of Bigby. Henry “The Klaxon” Fogg still has it. He surreptitiously punches the air. As he and Bigby shake hands, saying “good game,” she leans in to wink and whisper, “I let you win that one.” Fogg scoffs derisively at her, but internally he’s still on fire from the adrenaline of winning. He turns to the stands.

“And that is how you play Welters.” Fogg snaps his fingers, re-setting the board. “Any questions?”

Penny raises his hand in a manner he clearly considers to be aloof and cool.

“Yeah, is this a punishment?”

Hopeless, the lot of them.

“Yes, Mr. Adiyodi. I hate the seven of you specifically and have singled you out for a new form of punishment. Good luck.”

Youth today.

* * *

At 10:00, when the sunlight has inched a few more degrees across the wood floor, they split up into two groups. Fogg is supposed to ~~torture~~ that is, tutor, those who need a little... _help_ reviewing circumstances; while Bigby takes the more advanced students.

Fogg stands in front of his little group, lecturing them on the importance of studying circumstance.

“For Welters you will need to master two skills: not only adjusting to the changing circumstances, but also parsing out the correct circumstances. For the next twenty minutes I want you to partner up and drill your circumstance with—” he flicks his wrist while twisting it above his left hand, summoning two sets of cards, “these flash cards.” 

Penny crosses his arms and slouches even lower in his seat. “Is this really necessary?”

“Well, Mr. Adiyodi, can you tell me how to adjust Legrand’s Hammer charm for 20:00 on the summer solstice, during a thunderstorm?”

Penny scowls, then swipes a set of cards out of Fogg’s hands. “Point taken.” He grabs one of Kady’s hands and the two of them wander a little ways off to practice. Julia grabs the second set and plops down back next to Quentin. Fogg takes the momentary break to glance over at Bigby, who is on the other side of the gym making Eliot, Margo, and Alice practice on what looks suspiciously like a bean bag toss set.

At the sight of the three of them tossing bean bags, Fogg is forcibly reminded of Eliot, Margo, and Alice, tossing everything they have at the Beast—desperately trying to fend him off—

The memory is shattered the sounds of an argument. He has never been so happy to hear a bunch of twenty-somethings squabbling like a bunch of angry geese.

“Well maybe you should TRY to fix your GODDAMN WARDS so I wouldn’t have to hear EVERY THOUGHT.”

_Penny_. Fogg thinks to himself. _Do we really need to start this again so goddamn early in the day?_

Apparently, they do.

Fogg walks quickly over to where Penny is posturing in Quentin’s face like an angry peacock, his shoulders tense with anger. Quentin is trying his best to scramble backwards but is stymied by the bleachers, his face a mixture of panic and anger. Julia hovers nearby, anxiously trying to defuse the situation, while Kady lounges on a bleacher, clearly enjoying the show.

“What seems to be the matter, Mr. Adiyodi?”

Penny whips around, still glaring. “This idiot,” he points at Quentin, “can’t shield his mind for shit and it. Is. Driving me crazy. I can’t focus with all this fucking, noise.”

Quentin, hands balled into fists, starts to respond. “My mind IS shielded, this is the best I can do, can’t you just stop listening?”

Sometimes, Fogg finds it quite easy to sympathize with the Beast.

“Fine. Mr. Adiyodi, will you be able to concentrate if Mr. Coldwater is moved to the other group? Yes? Good.”

Quentin looks up at Fogg in shock, clearly feeling that he is the victim here. “But, sir,”

“Mr. Coldwater, this is not a punishment; it is simply the quickest solution. I am sure you can survive thirty minutes without Ms. Wicker. And please, try to work on your wards.” Penny snickers a bit and flutters his fingers in goodbye at Quentin, who grabs his books and walks dejectedly to the other side.

Fogg turns back to the other three. “Well, I hope you feel you have sufficiently drilled your circumstances, because we will now move on to the practical portion.” He waves them over to the board and taps a pale square on the edge, which lights up immediately. “Ms. Orloff-Diaz, can you tell me what the circumstances of this square are?”

Kady squints at the board. “I dunno, Oregon on a rainy day?” She looks up at Fogg, bored.

_Jesus_. What is he paying all these multi-degreed professors to teach the students, horticulture?

“It’s the vernal equinox in the Gobi Desert.” He says dryly. “Clearly you all need more practice. I’m going to activate a few squares and I want you all to write out what their circumstances are and how to adjust for them. Please try not to mess it up to badly, for the sake of my sanity and yours.”

Penny shoots him a death glare for that, muttering “I’m not a fucking middle schooler,” while Kady continues to look supremely disinterested. Would it have been _so hard_ for Jane to find better puppets? You’d think the Beast, at least, had enough self-respect to find actual competent enemies.

Julia at least quickly grabs a notebook and pen and attempts to corral the other two.

“Guys, we should really focus. Look, it’s clearly near the ocean, which means the humidity will be affected…”

“Shit, you just can’t stop being such a suck up, can you?” Penny crosses his arms impatiently. Fogg tenses, getting ready to intervene if necessary, but Kady beats him to it.

“Don’t mind him. He’s just grumpy because the beach reminds him of Florida.”

Julia goggles at Penny. “You’re from _Florida_? But you seem so, so…”

“What? Brown?”

“…fucking rude.” She finishes dryly. The three of them stare at each other for a minute, then break into peals of laughter.

“She’s got you there, dude,” giggles Kady, nudging Penny. Penny holds out his fist to Julia, who has her eyebrows raised in surprise but mouth already curving into a smile.

* * *

For a brief moment after lunch, Fogg actually feels a flicker of hope.

(But maybe that’s just the three glasses of whiskey kicking in.)

* * *

The sunlight had moved to be just over halfway across the floor, lighting up the Welters board gloriously. The students trickle back in, alone or in pairs. Strangely enough, Quentin is already there, sitting by himself, when Fogg gets back. Alice comes in next, dumping what seems to be an entire Styrofoam cup of sugar into her coffee. Eliot and Margo follow, falling over each other in drunken giggles at something inane Quentin says. Goddamn, he always forgets how weird they all are. Julia comes back in last, also alone, wearing a stormy expression.

“In order to prepare you for the fast-paced environment of a serious Welters game,” starts Bigby, “We will be doing speed casts in groups. The person who is able to figure out the circumstances of their square and cast appropriately the fastest will win. I’ll take Penny, Julia, and Kady, and Dean Fogg will take Margo, Eliot, Alice, and Quentin.”

Margo’s eyes light up with a competitive gleam.

“If it’s a competition, do we win anything?”

“The admiration of your peers and the knowledge that you have bested them.”

Margo rubs her hands together. “Good enough for me. Let’s go, bitches!”

She, Alice, Eliot and Quentin all go over to Fogg, who quickly sets them each up in front of a practice square. Alice seems to have a little trouble figuring out her circumstances, but what time she loses there she more than makes up for by performing one of the fastest Thermodynamic Semi-Molecular Transformations Fogg has ever seen. Eliot and Margo are neck-in-neck until Margo fumbles her Popper 45 and is forced to start over. Alice is, unsurprisingly, the first to finish, having successfully turned her square into pure, shimmering light. Margo eyes her appraisingly.

Quentin, unfortunately, is still struggling to adjust to the circumstances of his square. Eliot peers over his shoulder.

“Here- you have to adjust your left thumb like this—" Eliot reaches over to re-adjust Quentin’s thumb, “—because at this time of year in Nova Scotia the Pleiades are in the southern part of the sky.” Quentin blushes, mumbles a “thank you,” and finally succeeds in turning his square to a dull black surface.

Fogg resets his stopwatch, amused. “Good job everyone. Let’s go again and see if anyone can top Ms. Quinn’s record of one minute and thirty-four seconds.” This time, it’s Margo who takes the lead. Just after the one minute, ten seconds mark, she manages to grow a beautiful miniature pine tree out of her square, complete with bird’s nest.

“HA! Suck it, Alice!” Margo raises her arms in the air, then turns to high-five Eliot. Alice, who is just finishing up an intricate spell meant to turn her square into mercury, gives Margo the finger without missing a beat.

“Nicely done Ms. Hanson, but next time please refrain from taunting your teammates.”

“Just a little friendly competition, sir!” She chirps brightly.

A frustrated groan catches Fogg’s attention. Quentin is staring in dejectedly at his square, sitting sadly un-transformed next to Eliot’s oozing concoction. Fogg sighs. He really doesn’t know why the Beast is so focused on Coldwater, considering the boy poses the threat level of a flowering bush.

“You three,” he waves at Alice, Margo, and Eliot, “continue to practice over there. Mr. Coldwater, come over here.”

Quentin shoots a panicked glance at the others. Eliot pats him on the shoulder solemnly while Margo punches his arm and tells him to “pussy up, Coldwater.” Alice gives him an apologetic sort of grimace but walks off to join the others. Quentin trudges over to Fogg, with the look of a doomed man walking to his end.

“I notice that you seem to be having some difficulties.”

Quentin looks up at him, eyes crinkled in worry. “I, I know, I’m sorry sir. I swear I’ve been practicing! But I just, um I just can’t seem to get the hang of this, it takes me so long to remember how to adjust for one circumstance and then there’s five more, or, or I don’t, I forget one, and—”

Fogg holds up his hand, cutting off the flow of words. “It’s okay, Mr. Coldwater, I understand. I’ve been there too. I’m here to help.”

Quentin pauses, regarding Fogg with a hesitant hope. “I’ll just practice more, I’ll figure it out later so you don’t need to waste time helping me…” he mumbles.

“Quentin, I’m offering to help you. Take it.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Good. Now, walk me through your process on this square here.” Fogg taps the square that Quentin had spent the last minute staring at.

Quentin takes a deep breath. “Okay, so I know the circumstances are pretty standard except for it’s at the 15th latitude, and, I think, there’s, it’s a leap year? So the moon’s position is a little different from usual.” Fogg nods, prompting him to keep going. “Um, so, that means I need to factor in the Kildare correction, and then, uh,” he pauses, working through some mental calculation. “accentuate the right ring finger? I just- I can’t figure out _why_ this stuff matters so I have a hard time keeping it all straight in my mind.” 

Ah. Fogg can see where he was going wrong. “Has anyone covered the Tortullian Theory with you yet?”

“Um, the what, no?”

Fogg sighs. What were they teaching his students these days? “Well, if you get a chance you should find a copy of ‘The Mirror of Orindzt.’ Now,” he pats the bench next to him, gesturing for Quentin to sit down. “I think the Tortullian Theory would be helpful for you. It’s a mnemonic of sorts. Magic…” Fogg pauses, searching for the right words, “allows us to tap into the energy of the universe, channel it through ourselves, and use it to affect the physical world. But physical conditions affect the, the wavelength of the energy, and in order to tap into it and channel it back out of ourselves we have to adjust accordingly, like fine-tuning a radio in order to get rid of static. Our hands then direct that flow towards our goal. The Tortullian Theory says that our hands are actually mimicking the invisible lines and forms of the universe. The curve of the index fingers reflects the phase of the moon and position of the Pleiades, the thumb and forefinger atmospheric conditions, and the angle of the wrists the latitude and longitude. Does that make sense?” Quentin hesitates, then nods.

“I mean, I guess?”

“Good. Once you become…fluent one could say, these things will come automatically. In the meantime, try to cast on this,” Fogg points at a clean square, “with this in mind: It doesn’t necessarily matter that you get every single circumstance perfectly as long as the magic feels like it’s being guided properly by you. Like it’s resonating at just the right pitch.”

Quentin takes a deep breath, then begins, hesitantly, to run through Popper 52, then 12, and then something that looks like a very bad Vulcan salute, all while muttering in Old Church Slavonic under his breath.

Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise but especially Quentin’s, the square turns itself into clear glass. Quentin throws his arms up in astonishment, flailing a bit. “Oh, oh my god! That actually worked!” He turns to look at Fogg, beaming. “Thanks, that was actually really helpful. I could…I could feel the shape the magic wanted to be in, and, and then I did that!”

Fogg claps him on the shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Coldwater. We’ll make a magician out of you yet.”

Fogg watches Quentin go off to join the other three, looking slightly less miserable than usual. Just for fun, he quickly turns a square into a series of rolling, snow covered hills. Looking at his handiwork, Fogg is surprised to find he feels, well, proud. Maybe. Not happy, but just…satisfied with a job well done for once.

It’s nice.

* * *

The closer to dinner they get, the more tempers shorten. Finally, all that simmering tension is coming to a head. He and Bigby have the students break themselves up into teams, which turns out to be a terrible idea.

“You coming, Julia? We got room for one more.” Penny holds his hand out to her. She looks back over her shoulder at Quentin, biting her lip.

“Jules, come on, don’t go with that asshole,” he pleads.

“Sorry, Q, but I think it would be good for us to spend time with other people.”

Quentin looks back, eyes wide, apparently completely shocked that maybe Julia doesn’t want to spend her entire life joined at the hip with him.

Eliot sits down heavily next to him, swinging an arm around his shoulders.

“Don’t look so abandoned, Q. Margo and I have plenty of room for you.”

“Yeah Coldwater, cheer up.” Margo collapses onto the bench on the other side of him. “You’re on a team of goddamn winners. I mean, Quinn alone could beat Mr. Brightside and his two girlfriends any day.”

* * *

There is actually a brief, shining moment where the two teams are working in sync, spells sparking across the room, the team members working together to create a beautiful melody and harmony counterpoint. But, as so often happens, someone hits a false note and brings it all crashing down.

From there the game quickly devolves into chaos.

At one point, Fogg puts his head in his hands to avoid any more of the excruciating embarrassment, until- “Jesus _Christ_ , Margo!”

Fogg whips his head around. _Keep this up_ , he thinks grimly, _and you’re going to give yourself whiplash._ Next to Julia, where Penny had been standing, is now a bunny.

“Ms. Hanson,” says Fogg warningly.

“You did that on _purpose_ ,” snarls Kady. Julia is physically restraining her to prevent her from punching Margo. Margo, on the other hand, looks supremely unconcerned. Next to and behind her, Eliot looks far too smug, Quentin like he’s still trying to figure out exactly what happened, and Alice like this is much more of a turn-on than she had expected.

“Ms. Hanson!” he repeats.

“Oh please, it was an accident.” Margo looks coolly back at Kady. “Besides. Someone needed to shut him up.”

“MS. HANSON.” Finally, Margo turns to look at Fogg, her body taut with anger. “Yes?” she grinds out through gritted teeth.

“What has happened here?”

“She turned Penny into a rabbit, Dean Fogg,” jumps in Julia quickly.

“By accident!” Margo interjects. Kady glares at her.

“Sure, _accidentally_ missed a square hit Penny a yard away, and _accidentally_ messed up her spell so it would transform a person into a rabbit, which, by the way, is _illegal._ ”

“I’m well aware of that fact,” Fogg says at the same time Eliot tosses out, “and so is battle magic,” with a scowl for Kady.

“All of you,” Fogg growls, “Go sit on the bleachers. I will deal with you momentarily.”

What god had he angered in order to land him in this hell? What had he ever done to deserve such idiotic, reckless, fucking boneheaded students?

He looks down at Penny and sighs. “Maybe you’d be happier as a rabbit.” Penny’s noise twitches. If it’s possible for rabbits to be angry, this one certainly is.

Bigby peers over Fogg’s shoulder. “Well, that is a very complete transformation. Very impressive on Ms. Hanson’s part.”

“Not helpful, Bigby,” he says absentmindedly. De-bunnying Penny back will take patience and pain-staking accuracy, both of which Fogg is a little short-handed on currently.

“You’d better let someone else deal with this,” she remarks, apparently reading his mind. Or just his mood. Fogg sighs in agreement and hands Penny over to her.

Bigby leaves to take Penny to the school hospital, clearly glad to be shot of this mess. Fogg turns back to the remaining students, who are continuing their shouting match.

“Well MAYBE if you would just GROW UP, Q, you wouldn’t feel so threatened by me having other friends!”

“That’s- that is absolutely not true!” He splutters.

“Oh yeah? Then why do keep trailing after me like a little brother, desperate for attention?”

“Oh, just tell us how you really feel, huh, Jules?” spits Quentin.

“Like you don’t already know,” she hisses back venomously.

“Please, students, let us act like adults and return to the game.” Fogg speaks as loudly as he could, interrupting the argument. Quentin and Julia continue to glare at each other for a minute, then Quentin finally backs down.

“Whatever. It’s my throw.” Quentin grabs the ball and angrily tosses it to the center of the board, where it lands with a thump at the edge of a black square.

* * *

During the 4:00 tea break, Quentin walks in with the unmistakable air of someone who is about to drug his dean. Fogg sighs internally, but figures it’s best to just get it over with. Maybe that will keep Quentin from asking too many goddamn stupid questions.

He places his glass of brandy in a conveniently unprotected position and makes a show of turning his back on it in order to straighten up his bottles.

“What brings you here today, Mr. Coldwater?”

Quentin is all knotted up into a ball of anxiety in his chair. “I just, uh, had a few, questions?”

Fogg takes a conspicuous sip of his drink and watches Quentin relax.

“Ask away, then. I have a few free minutes.” This is going to be so goddamn boring. Luckily, he has his “truthied and interrogated by Quentin Coldwater” bingo card on hand.

“Is this Welters thing part of some, like, larger plot or something?”

Huh. He hadn’t thought that he and Bigby were being THAT obvious.

“Yes, actually. Bigby and I were asked to keep you and your fellows occupied and out of the way for the weekend.”

Quentin’s mouth falls open in a very unflattering way. “I- what? Wait, there really is some kind of plot? That was a complete shot in the dark.”

“You didn’t suspect something? Then why in God’s good name did you feel the need to slip me truth serum?” Fogg is dumbfounded. Outwitted, _yet again_ , by a bumbling idiot.

“Honestly,” Quentin shrugs uncomfortably, “we all thought something was up, but no one could find anything out. I, uh, I suggested truth serum, and then Penny said I was ‘too much of an unbelievable pussy’ to manage that, and basically, Penny dared me to do it and said if I did he would leave me alone for the weekend.” He looks somewhere in the vague vicinity of Fogg’s chin, embarrassed but not really apologetic.

“Jesus,” mutters Fogg, rubbing his hands across his face. “I hate my job.”

“Anyways,” Quentin pushes forward, eyes wide, “Who wanted you to keep us out of the way? And Why?”

“That would be Jane Chatwin.”

“Jane, Jane Chatwin?” Quentin’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head.

Being starstruck by Jane Chatwin: check.

“Well, she prefers to go by Eliza when incognito, but honestly I’ve never figured out which one to call her and at this point it’s too late to ask.” Damn, the truth serum must be hitting him hard right now. He’s being far too candid for his own good.

“I- what? So is Fillory actually real?” Quentin sits forward, all eagerness. Quentin geeks out over Fillory: check.

Fogg sighed. “Yes, Mr. Coldwater. And there is a Beast out there hell-bent on taking control of Fillory by locking down all means of entry and exit. This includes stopping the flow of the wellspring, the source of all magic, even here. He will do anything to achieve this goal, and for some reason he has fixated on you as a major obstacle.”

“Me? Why??” Quentin’s voice was rising in fear and shock.

“Honestly, Mr. Coldwater, I wish I knew. At any rate, Jane has been trying to stop him for a long time now, and has decided that you and your friends are the key. I do not necessarily agree, but unfortunately I cannot control her.”

“Why hasn’t anyone told us anything? Told me anything? I think I’d have the right to know about the evil being trying to KILL ME.”

Confused/righteous anger: check.

“We were hoping that by _not_ telling you, it would keep you out of trouble.”

Quentin switches tactics. “Who else is involved, besides me and Jules?”

“Well, it can vary from timeline to timeline. It’s almost always you two, Mr. Adiyodi, and then some combination of Mr. Waugh, Ms. Quinn, Ms. Hanson, and occasionally Ms. Orloff-Diaz. Virtually your whole Welters team, in fact.”

“I- wait, it _varies_? This has happened more than once?”

“This is the twenty-sixth time, in fact, with no sign of stopping. So far each one has ended in your horrible and gruesome deaths, at which point Jane resets the timeline. She’s a horomancer, see. She has a watch that lets her reset the timeline, which apparently she will do until she has either the outcome she wants or we’re all too dead to care.”

There is a stunned silence as Quentin tries to process this. Clearly still in shock, he opens his mouth to say: “So, this is basically the movie ‘Groundhog Day.’”

Bingo.

Jesus Christ. He is going to kill Quentin Coldwater himself.

“Yes, Mr. Coldwater. This is exactly like ‘Groundhog Day.’”

“Well, we have to _do_ something! We can’t just sit around, waiting to be killed!” Quentin has snapped back into action and is looking up at Fogg, pleading, full of that slow-burning _persistence_ that had gotten him killed twenty-five times already. Fogg desperately wishes things were different, and looks down at his desk.

“I’m afraid there is nothing to be done, Mr. Coldwater. This timeline is already unstable and doomed, Jane simply wanted us to keep you out of the way while she chased down some last leads. Within twenty-four hours this whole timeline will be reset.”

Quentin goes white.

“Oh don’t look at me like that, Mr. Coldwater. It’s not like you’re going to die.” As soon as he says that, Fogg realizes he’s made a fatal mistake. Quentin is still white, yes, but he’s white with fury.

“Except I will, functionally. The person who got this far, the, the _me_ who’s been shaped by all of this” –he gestures wildly—“will cease to exist! We all will! How can you just sit there so calmly?’

“Actually,” Fogg sighs, already regretting what he’s about to say, “I remember the time loops. I can’t be ‘erased,’ as you put it. And believe me, it is a living hell. Forgetting would be preferable.”

“ _What_ ,” Quentin practically yells. “You’re just…you’re just playing with us, with our lives like that? And you get to sit above us all, manipulating us? That’s, that’s not okay. That’s _cruel._ I…I’m going to tell the others this. Since apparently you won’t.”

Fogg sits there and watches him leave, steeling himself for what’s to come.

* * *

The aftermath isn’t pretty.

Fogg has been through this enough times to know the drill, but still—it never gets easier, telling children they’re going to die. The ensuing shouting match is practically Wagnerian, waves of sound and fury that crash over Fogg, unmoved. He lets them have at it because at this point there isn’t anything else left to do, and if it makes them feel better to blame someone. Well. He can be that person. ( _He’s certainly failed at being anything else,_ says a voice somewhere near the base of his throat.)

He lets them leave the Welters court once they’ve finished, drained and hopeless. No point in forcing them to keep playing now, when that would probably only result in further disaster. They’re only allowed to go to one of the smaller faculty lounges, though, and with Bigby to keep an eye on them. He’ll keep his word to Jane about keeping them out of her hair.

He sits down on the bleachers with a sigh, chin resting in his hands, wishing he had a nice bourbon but too tired, too _defeated_ to do anything with that want. This is it, yet again. The jig is up, the game over. Nothing left to do but wait for the lights to go out in oh, twenty-three hours or so. He savors the feeling like a fine wine, relishing the way the delicate strands of resignation, exhaustion, old hurts, and fresh loss combine. Really, nothing ages over twenty-six time loops like a sense of failure. You can appreciate its subtler elements; the heady rush of anger, the intoxicating well of self-hatred, the comfortingly stable knowledge that you can stop trying now.

He’s all set for a nice, long, wallow, when Julia Wicker comes bursting back in through the doors.

“Ms. Wicker,” he calls out resignedly, “Please return to the faculty lounge, where you will be safe.” Julia, however, is not deterred that easily.

“ _Safe_?” she spits, eyes burning. “Safety? Is that really what you’re worried about, _Sir?_ Since apparently this whole time, me and my friends have been _used_ by you and yours?”

Fogg rubs his hands over his face. He is so, so, tired. “Yes, Ms. Wicker, believe it or not, I am doing everything in my power to keep you and your friends _alive_.”

Julia is standing in front of him, practically vibrating with rage at the injustice of it all. “Really? By making us all play Welters like happy little school-kids, while someone- _something_ is out there stalking us? We had the right to know!”

“I know, Ms. Wicker.” He says softly, head so heavy in his hands. “But what would you have me do? I’ve told you lot before, in other timelines, and that never works, either. You still die anyways. Would you prefer to be left dead? To die permanently?”

She still glares at him, sighs frustratedly. “Well, ideally, I’d like to _survive_ graduate school. But this, this is so _stupid_! To be doing the same thing over and over. To wait here, for the next round to begin.”

He looks at her levelly. “So what would you suggest?”

“We fight! We still have time—get all the people we can, throw everything we’ve got at this in one last blow out. Surely you have the resources—”

She stops because Fogg is shaking his head. “This timeline has already started falling apart, remember? Even if by some miracle we do stop the Beast, this timeline is collapsing anyways.”

Julia gesticulates wildly, paces, powerless and _furious_ about that. “But- that can’t be it. This can’t be it! We still have time, to- to find a solution. This is our chance!”

Fogg sighs bitterly. “Didn’t you hear, Ms. Wicker? This is the 26th time we’ve done this. Do you really think we won’t be doing this again? That we won’t do this another 26 times? I’m riding the rest of this one out, and I suggest you do the same.” 

Julia finally stops pacing to glare at him. “What, that I give up?”

“Well, yes.” What else does she want from him? “Now, unless you have anything else you’d like to yell at me, I suggest you go back to the faculty lounge.”

Julia, for a minute, looks ready to fight, then ready to storm out. Instead she pauses, then says:

“I respected you, you know. A knowledge student, Dean of Brakebills College, doing great things. Now though, I can see that you don’t _do_ anything. You just sit and watch as life goes by. What a joke.”

* * *

Fogg sits there and he sits there and he sits there and he just—he just doesn’t know _what_ to _do_.

It hurts, what Julia said. You’d think it wouldn’t, after all this time, but, well.

Julia always had been his favorite.

And the thing is, she has a point. Other than this Welters thing, he can’t remember the last time he’s really made a choice, one that hadn’t already been made for him by the Brakebills Board of Trustees, or Jane fucking Chatwin, or the cruel will of the universe itself. Because why bother? They were all just part of some big slot machine, waiting for someone to hit upon the winning combination. Nothing he does eally matters anymore. It’s all just…hopeless.

God, he hates Jane for putting him in this position.

At this point, he just wants it to be over. He wants to sleep, and sleep, and sleep. He wants to go home, but he’s already in the closet thing to home he’s ever had.

It all ends eventually. Everything is stripped away until all that’s left is the inevitability of death and if that’s all there is, then what is the point?

* * *

Fogg isn’t really sure what happens that night, what the seven of them discuss, but next morning he finds himself back on the Welters court, looking at a full-blown Welters team in uniform and everything.

Margo turns towards him, looking oddly smug. There’s a stubborn tilt to her head that Fogg has learned to fear these past twenty-six timelines.

“So,” she does a little self-satisfied shoulder wiggle. “We’ve decided. As a team.”

“Fuckin’ strong-armed, more like,” mutters Penny. Margo glares at him.

“AS A TEAM, we’ve decided. We’re gonna stick this one out. We’re going to the Welters tournament, come hell or high water or goddamn time travel.”

Fogg doesn’t understand.

“Your determination is admirable, Ms. Hanson, but why bother? You’ve essentially just been handed a death sentence.”

She shrugs. “And? We can’t control anything in life, except ourselves. If the universe is so hellbent on us being miserable, I say we spend this last day enjoying ourselves. One last fuck you while we still can.”

Fogg continues to be baffled. “But…this is all futile.

Quentin looks up then, smiling wryly. “No offense professor, I mean, maybe it’s a millennial thing, but, uh, that’s not, a new concept for us. I’ve been staring down the barrel of the futility of life since, like, 2008. Kinda used to it by now.”

Fogg considers that one.

Kady, of all people, looks him in the eye and says:

“It doesn’t matter what happens later. All we have is now.”

“Okay,” says Margo, clapping her hands. “We can debate the finer points of existentialism another day. Or, I guess, not, which is fine by me. Anyways, we’ve got a Welters tournament to fucking dominate. Let’s get ready.”

On the way out, Julia stops in front of Fogg, strangely uncertain. “Look I’m- I’m sorry about what I said yesterday. I mean, I’m still really mad about all of this, and I think this situation is wrong and cruel, but uh, I can recognize that it’s not all your fault.”

“It’s fine, Ms. Wicker.” Fogg smiles—dare he say it—fondly down at her. “I just wish you could remember this next time.”

She’s shrugs. “Just because something never happened, doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter, you know?”

He thinks about that a lot, later.

* * *

In the end, Fogg doesn’t even really remember who won the tournament. (That’s a lie, he totally does, and it wasn’t them. Fuck you too, magic UCLA.) What he does remember is this, after:

They’re all there, piled together on top of the Welters board. On any other day someone would be sniping at someone else, and half of the team wouldn’t be talking to the other half. But the knowledge of looming inevitability really puts things into perspective, he supposes.

At any rate, they’re all here long after everyone has moved on, exhausted, but still happy. Full of love for each other. Fogg knows that this is why they’re still here, instead off in their separate worlds. They want to spend their last minutes together, hold on while they still can.

Fogg, captain of a sinking ship, looks on from the shadows in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. Bigby is right in there with them, regaling them all with some hilarious story. Quentin is half-asleep on top of Margo and Eliot, Alice is leaning tipsily on Kady, even Penny seems content as he runs his fingers through Julia’s hair.

Suddenly, Fogg is struck by how _proud_ he is of all of them, how much he is legitimately fond of them. Sure, maybe this timeline was a bust and pointless and they didn’t even come close to defeating the Beast. But look at them all—happy and loving and _together_ in a way that they haven’t been in god knows how long. This is the first timeline not to end in disaster, well, ever. That has to mean something. That has to echo down through the timelines.

It means something to him, at least. It feels like hope.

He stands there until he hears the clock tower chiming twelve. He stands there as reality seems to flex and warp, getting funny around the edges.

He stands there, cradling that spark of hope, and watches

as time

unspools

from

itself.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! if you made it all the way to the end, thank you so much for reading! I know this isn't the usual kind of fic for this fandom or even me, but I got the idea into my head and it wouldn't leave me alone. I just kept wondering-- what's keeping Fogg going? How do you live the same life over and over, never knowing if this time it's the version that's going to stick?
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed, and thank you for indulging my philosophical tangents <3


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